Tsunami Effect

"People who watch it know it isn't boring."-- Robert MacNeil

To stay with IIsoe's adaptation as a lede, for a bit, the Catholic Church is correct with its catechism that some diseases represent evil. We never see Veronika's homosexual husband Carl, but it is his desire to satisfy his need for sodomy which precipitates the latter day crises at Gronnegaard, and the cancer weakened Veronika only has the satisfaction, after lifelong sexual promiscuity, of being caviler with Singe, the youngest daughter who never knew. The elder woman perhaps knew she was dying, and reveals the truth to a clueless florist of 26 that appearances concealed the consequences of so much sexual liberalism. Was Veronika cruel to the girl who only a day earlier she was attempting to ingratiate? Is lack of reticence appalling? As when a mother confesses her former best friend made a pass at her, and then, oh, a year, six months, regrets, through her emotional disorder psychiatry insists on classifying, says "I wish I never told you that."

Veracity alters the landscape. I loved Kathy more than my own mother when I was 12, and wished fervently to trade places with the deceased daughter Colleen. Kathy came out before my mother's anecdote, showing up at my sister's tete a tete gatherings, and I met the partner, a relative of the dead husband. My gaze stayed overhead. No remarks, just two fat women well over 35. I attempted to rekindle former childhood attachment as pretense. Hugged former childhood attachment at funeral for the bipolar matriarch who isn't to be blamed for my 53 year old predicament, and would burn the enemy at the stake along with New Mobility's star lesbian. Do I realize the implications of my rhetoric? Grand standing? Inflammatory? 

The media is just as absorbed in generating Bobbi Kristina into. a saga as it elevated Terri Schiavo into a Shakespearean tour de force. Terri Schiavo, however, was emblematic, to all parties, whether it was the life affirming ecumenical advocates, or the death with dignity advocates who wanted a vegetable with minimal awareness and a shrunken brain to be released. Nothing could be proven against Michael Schiavo prior to 2005. Terri's presumed diet pill usage is not an a priori indicator of abuse. Bobbi Kristina is not emblematic, just the poor little rich girl who brought the hood into Paris, in essence, despite Houston's celebrity and daddy Brown's acumen, whatever that amounts to. The family has the money to emulate Caucasian anal retention standards, but black is black, skidding on its on depreciation and hair relaxers. And Bobbi's attempted suicide or abuse at the hands at adopted brother is fresh enough that if the conspiracy minded Caucasian public could not get Michael, they are damn well going to roast Nick Gordon in a public shaming.

The upstanding Fascist who hates the hood where she is now totally indigent gives him the benefit of the doubt, even if the girls are always the heavy. Public television newscasts are boring, and pink. Why am I picking on Ozy? They were nice to me, and all the sudden I've developed a papier mache indignation. Why? No one reading my content is willing to risk helping me re-engage first, worrying about the rest later. Safety and support outside the box. Work, a fresh change of environment where I can reach for a modicum of tranquility. I'm not ready to die. On the razor's edge, I'm still fighting. Give me a chance. The libertarians accepted me. More than I can say for the hideous cruelty and corruption in the progressive welfare state.

Arrested Development

"She wasn't a bad girl."-- Marcel Proust

I remember taking notes I now cannot find on a particular Grey's Anatomy episode. Jessica Capshaw makes amputation the entire world, and Sara Ramirez pretends to be salivating at the prospect of being masturbated in more girl games in a hotel suite above Bailey's wedding, while the Chief's wife is succumbing to heart disease. If NBC gets sometimes courageously stark with its dramas, ABC likes to revel in our naivete, trying my patience. What made the series popular with its viewing audience led to my disavowal for its lack of nuance, although a monologue caught me once in awhile: the Asian surgeon's bad housekeeping speech.

I was rather late, as a student of literature, in coming to Marcel Proust, and his magical dips in and out of fugue states, as when we get introduced to Mlle. Vinteuil's scandalous lesbianism, about a third in to Swann's Way. Google has been uncooperative  in helping me find the mildly voyeuristic passage, to which I'll return, conditioned upon my safe transitioned survival as the end of July nears, but the wily socialite of an author nearly reconciles me to the difficulty of vicious same sex liaisons in a way that Henry James is incapable of doing, because James sees the reality of physical passion as invidious in its consequences. Proust wouldn't necessarily disagree with this Jamesian subtext; he's simply more forgiving of human frailty and obsession, moving the consequences along to the next window, like peeking at more or less outrageous sexual adventures in hotel rooms.

What genius reconciles, the screen writer's guild dissuades, however, with nearly puerile infantilism. Ramirez and Capshaw might have been behind the bleachers at a high school pep rally, for all this pepto we're all the same love scene between Caucasian damage (lost limb) in the bosom of minority lasciviousness, even if it is more inferred than shown. Nipple sucking is built up permissively in erotica, biting is moved up a gradient into porn. Tolerance comes due to what we're willing to screen away from deviations of fantasy. 

Hulk Hogan Machismo

"What is your primary concern?"
"The overthrow of the federal government."-- a conversation with an anarchist where spastic dowager reads the tea leaves for good grades.

Actually, with two glasses of beer in me I managed to upset the socially tolerant computer programmers with my astonishing level of hostility for the LBGT community, and I am not sure I should risk banishment by writing what my assertions were, in the public square, about lesbians, transsexuals, and mind fucking in my new found community. Anarchists are hot, and got my blood flowing with excitement at the inquiry of "It was mass murder, but was it wrong?" I inquired as to which mass murder this was, but my voice failed to reach the beef steak's attention. And if I think I've found a solution hobnobbing with volatile paranoid reactives who make their money in computer science, precisely what problem is being solved with this delightful carnivorous indulgence remains obscure. The anarchist who offered me his approval for my intent to vacate public housing said I'd manage, and we'll see about that, but I am still to some degree my mother, entranced by men with an aura of danger, even as my views of crisis management grow more dismal. Why Judy Woodruff went on a fishing expedition with Michael Nutter about the speed of the Amtrak engine on Wednesday evening is baffling. Philadelphia, as a municipality, has nothing to do with regulating the publicly funded railroad. I, on the other hand, know something about scheduling mass transit tours to the minute, and the pressures operators and drivers face attempting to make up delays. I used to believe in well funded mass transit.

But it is obvious we're being overtaken by systems complexity. Even with Michael Apted turning physical abuse into a world wide wrestling spectacle, Ebert misses a beat or two. As a professional critic, he isn't wrong about Enough. It is an excellent disservice in terms of its sociological interpretation of domestication in a world defined by testosterone, but Kazan is playing with tropes of Social Darwinism: the alpha male up against the effeminate male, the woman taking on the attributes of aggression, even this loses itself to the dynamic of the processes we've created and spread in the western hemisphere: legal jurisdiction as a preeminent solution (custody battles, divorce proceedings), juxtaposed against the overwhelming tendency of American men to game the system. Fred Ward and Noah Wyle are in the same operating theater in this regard. Billy Campell's unpleasantness as Mitch is explained in the salvo of the opening scene: he is a manipulator, and is out manipulated.

I have written about the embarrassment, and conflicted loyalties Josie Byzek caused me before,and will not continue to milk how she treated my long ago prospective cyber interest, but I'll throw down a gauntlet, cognizant it will go unanswered: If she is so holier than thou, and so damned correct as a liberal, why can't she offer me a public apology for betraying my trust? Her behavior wasn't simply one of lashing out at a man who had my interest. She made an observation to me that he had a thing for me, then turned on him, disrupting what I created my disability group for, causing him to quarrel with me. Homosexual self-righteousness is sacred ground, until they bite like vicious ferrets. Where is their humility? Packed in their anal plugs?

Voyage of the Damned

"I'm going to kill that bitch!"-- Joanne Woodward, conventionalized fury

My efforts to work offline are thwarted, not because of turning in to a social media junkie, but because Karina so innocently obliterated my hard copy existence as a writer because I did not rush out of the bathroom naked to throttle the disconcerted dumbass, compounded by the fact that Presby has compounded my social fears to the ninth power, my revision files of all my mania driven poetry are basically gone, and many drafts were worth saving.

I'm starving, sick, back in indigence, and my life has been eradicated. I wanted to rewrite a complicated suburban piece, a poem about my mother's dyke friend, would be lover, and once, my second mom. I was attached to Kathy. I call her Kmac in here as much to shield my psyche from the depth of my intimacy with homosexuals, both unrealized and known alike (I knew Erik was gay when I hung out with him and Jimmi, but his vagina was news to me and when s/him told me, it was a rare instance when I nearly threw up in his face). As ridiculous as it is, I feel betrayed by Kathy Mac, feel that my childhood sanctity was destroyed by her sexual deceptions, and the few times my sister had her over after my mother's death, I made nice about bridging the gap, but knew the gap would remain, a permanent geological chasm. I cannot prove, but believe she had covert terminations, and most of my data has vanished, because I am browbeat by thick set domestics and snake-tongued prevaricating bulls with tits, my favorite fecal pair, Trudy and Debra. 

I am not the only writer and minimal author (barely one, I guess) to lose so much, but I'm not 35 anymore, and my sense of being threatened and continually overwhelmed is a non-stop conveyor belt. I used to love doing what I do, and Presbyterian Homes has been successful at one thing: leaving me in continual fear of my life. I had to leave Diamond Park, but Riverside had made me pay a high price for its eroding stability-- more inner city residents live here now than 20 years ago-- and another move is on we go, round and round.

Catherine Deneuve

I could not meet the demands of working at The Washington Post, whatever standards remain, but I study the special bylines, the one timers-- that I hope to break; if I can do it with the Inquirer I can do it with Wapo, one day, but if I am going to bounce, cancel my digital access and move on, I am ambivalent, reluctant, and familiar with contempt. I've not made up my mind, and cancellation would not be a total blackout-- and yet, elongating  hyper sigh, I like my comfort zone of being part of its community, as long as I keep a check on running the comments (the moderators, those almighty arbiters of online speech, did not grant me a comment badge; sniff, but then again, I am a guppy competitor, and a sociopathic blogger who hasn't quite quite truly lain it out on the mat since then again I am a quite vulnerable sociopath, and vengeance killings have been done by better lesbians than I am ever going to be-- does a sardonic jibe diminish my serious hostility to the gay community?) I've held my fire, and we'll see what happens when I go to target practice. I will be honest, however. I know I cannot roll back the social acceptance-- but what I am going to do is leave a warning for the future-- and when ape men cloning leads to recombinant disaster a futurist will pull me out of archive with smug reverberation. Highsmith aged quite awfully. She is an unsettled factor in my personal canon. I did one novel in group, the rest, well, of course-- through the studio filter. I just had an unpleasant picture, a vomit lurch, of Highsmith meeting Josie Byzek, pushing my limit on nauseating visuals and digestion. A tired superego, well. I know. What revolts, this is entirely irrelevant in the progressive pantheon. I regret not having studied Roman Polanski with an expert. What the motifs are beneath the surface of his claustrophobic spaces. Repulsion doesn't  have the ruthless upper cut of Rosemary's Baby, but I've now seen the trilogy. Hopefully I'll find the language I'm looking for, beyond his brilliance with repression. Is an auteur's signature merely a matter of style? Should women always expect to be pin cushions, fatuous with hatreds?

Men still make me happier, on the whole, despite the fact that I was a bloody fool. I almost wish Jerry had struck me across the face, shook me violently, though he did, as such, kick my ass in the process of his migratory journey and final placement.

Hackman's Armature

"Aging is a disease."-- Jonathan Weiner

Not four hours after uploading Turnstile, drifting into Weiner's obsession with gerontology, and balking despite symmetrical mindsets, the Apple 5c pings me into a Hollywood lesbian's group messaging circle. Despite the encroachment of late spring indigence with less and less ability to counteract it, I am not beyond a certain level of bemused sniggering at interconnected folly. I queried Diane Anderson-Minshall roughly two years ago with a cinema centered pitch, one in which I am still interested, for Curve Magazine, with minor diabolical motives on my part: Once in the gateway, there is no harm in keeping an eye out on gay glamour confetti. I mentioned Josie's name in the pitch to indicate I had associates. Diane did not respond, and I am mature enough to understand those odds, but never imagined importing Gmail into an iPhone would open the shutter on this woman's privacy, which, even within my psychological hostility, wouldn't be fair. Necessity being the mother of literacy as well as invention, I managed to shut off group messaging, and then fussed to both aunts before finally sinking under REM activity. I balk at this level of obtrusiveness in texting, and the fact that I held onto to her editorial email doesn't mean I want to read her fluff about getting ready for school.

Funny, none the less.

The European rendition of The Birdcage is superior to the American version. Lane and Hackman have a valiant pillow fight, but the foreign release is better grounded in the trigger ignitions of gender identity. Now that I am really sabotaging what's left of my career ambitions, my twilight zone may have a few intriguing page dates left, si? 

Weiner's view on biological entropy is far too fixated on stability and stasis.

Mucinex Valors

I was a putz too fourteen years ago. Got soppy, maudlin, panicky when she did not answer me. I advise anyone facing student loan default not to go this route, though I do not know how this crushing debt becoming nearly inviolate helps anyone, the debtors, or the economy. I literally let Linda exacerbate my anxiety, triggering the depression joined to it into an overwhelming-- cascade. Not sure how else to describe it. Episodes have roots, however, and this started in 95 with my brother's AIDS death. Padre told me to go to work on the day it occurred, which was a mistake. My then executive director shared his personal experiences about not being there for the death of his mother, which was kind of him, but despair gnawed hope into ground glass after Nicky died, and I resigned from Matrix not long thereafter. First damn broke with that. People in wheelchairs don't quit jobs, and I'd left three positions in a less than contained fashion. My last day under Linda's supervision, while friendly, came less than 12 hours after my assault, so I was on shaky pinions in my early thirties. By the time she threw me with her opinion that spastics have better orgasms than the rest of you, my eggshell was a thinning vellum, and my cherry was a flagellation center in which the hatred that creates assassins came to life, freshly minted.

By the time I stabilized, the building renovations started, and the inner city butch sack who wanted to ply her desire to indulge, unfortunately selected me for a target.

Second leg of long nightmare. Yes, I know; whipping this up in a post is not self-curation, but Miss Eddy's stealth and predatory deception leads to violence not due to denial and repression of auto erotic response; her deceit has its part, similar to that my mother's best friend Kmac played. This was not Chris Cooper in American Beauty, who was roused to courage by the sight of Spacey getting ripped. Eddy was a nursing aid, and it took me a long time to live down her hit, so long that black women in scrubs still make me uneasy. Not everyone has the self-confidence of a comedic character actor to make dung bitches switch it off fast enough. A young Canadian biology technician posted that gays can misinterpret signals. That might be fine for heterosexuals highly confident in their own sensuality, but aggressive lesbians shouldn't be surprised when they provoke their own injuries.

My abstract on James has nothing to do with this. I shall write it over the weekend. I do not always lighten it up, but this contest sounds fun. I'd like a writing party. Email me, bearing in mind I'm in cyclic bronchitis mode, taking extra rest, dying in my own fluid.

Pubic Lunch

October 6 President Sadat is assassinated by 4 members of Jama'at Al Jihad, a parcel of Muslim Brotherhood history

Rebecca De Mornay displays a curious sexual aggression with Antonio Banderas in Never Talk to Strangers. The paint by numbers schematic of this narrative is a few notches above in sobering responsibility compared to its fraternal twin De Palma slasher, yet DeMornay's performance reaches through the formula, and is worth mentioning in the context of repressed and traumatic memory. She gets the brittle vulnerability pushed to its trigger point right within the reticence of the lead character's control, and had that unifying copulation scene been shot for a mature audience, at least one quadriplegic might not have been able to withstand not acting on the frustration.

It goes to the disabled journalist's point, however: All physical intimacy, however healthy and consensual and beautiful when it is about the conception of children, has triggers. The further from conceiving you go, the more potent the trigger, and, when we move along the spectrum of homosexual eroticism, the closer you get to this with a partner (and I have observed more than you) the more legitimate disgust with the frailty of human flesh one is entitled to feel. Again, much like Orson Scott Card, science fiction novelist turned hot potato, I know progressives are having a field day, and radical equality for evolutionary mechanisms is here to stay, but I believe that as we lose the constraint of definition, we lose a unique sensibility that kept us human in the first place, and if a liberal wants to ask me if my former ally doesn't deserve its happiness on the same terms as my paternal cousins (who I believe have relatively stable marriages), my answer is no. Innuendo has been circumnavigating the web for years that in ratio to Bill's sexual appetites, Hillary had an equal indulgence for *pussy*; I have never seen it substantiated, but I am also not eager for a repeat of our sniggering contempt for America's eminent centrist couple. I liked Bill Clinton. I thought he had potential to be a great president and I'm angry with him for failing, but I remember far too much, and Hillary's ruthlessness with her excuses does not mean she deserves to be the first lady who actually takes charge at the helm. She failed to deliver on health care, gave the GOP enough of an ethical dilemma that they never got over it, didn't do much at State other than to suggest kindness would work better with Assad. I would not be worse off under Hillary than I am today, but if I am still functional, I have my doubts I'd wind up any better.

Mitochondrial Deformity

"Look at her labia." Joanne Marinelli, the first one

What I had hoped, at least until a couple of years ago, was that my half brother and his wife and myself could scrape up the resources to renovate his basement, and that, while not ideal, would have gotten me away from Jimmi Shrode's constant silent censure that I have to deal with here in the building on a daily basis. 

Before Benny and I quarreled, I wanted evidence from him that would illustrate that he was behind me, and provided him with the tools to do that before I lost patience with the fact that no movement was forthcoming. After my resource site AccessLife went out of business, and after New Mobility's management ceased to acknowledge me by 2005, the only supports I really had were inertia, both personal and systemic-- systemic in the sense that no regulatory model in Pennsylvania has ever propelled me forward, as opposed to becoming a hindrance. Seven years is a long time to feel stranded, to be doled out more molestation, then physical trauma.

And if I had the means to give my notice, I would force Jimmi to respond to me, because ugly gay men, in particular, have this sanctimonious way of cutting. I've burst into tears in front of him after realizing the enormity of what Limda had done. Playing me like that damaged me almost irrevocably, dashing any hope I had for the same things most Americans want. Mortgage, self-sufficiency. I don't want to be his friend again, but would like to take off the heat and get both him and Erik to realize that utilizing their personal relationship as paramount, not to be challenged, hurts the center the two of them supposedly govern. And the board of directors doesn't govern very well. Liberty Resources is constantly settling lawsuits.

I *see* my damage in the context of these events the same way that my site member sees it, but I know myself well enough to know that if I did not have to put up with the 8th floor LBGT A team as a daily reminder that I am exiled, it would be easier on me. Battling to keep my head up is hard enough. Now, let me put my progressive gay love hat back on for a minute:

When Linda told me she supported Jimmi for the job he wasn't supposed to have, she meant it in terms of peer support, and that bubble boy would be better off matriculated (impossible, trust me, what local media will tell you about Phila ADAPT bears little or no reflection on reality; they are terrorists, with brain disorders and palsies and intense moods and fat broken bodies, but still zealots who don't worry law enforcement since they are zealots easy to kill). I get that, but when you treat a federally mandated center as if it was a point guard mafia for the 5, 6 at the top who are indispensable, that is the corruption of socialism.

The corruption of materialism lies in the fact that I cannot be a burden to Benjamin and his wife. Rare thing in the US these days that families are the main resource for each other, and Benny is scared of what I am willing to say, like that his biological parent abused Stephanie, and that Stuart Lone, the wrong stepfather, would have killed little Nicky if powerful uncles had not intervened. Sensible people say "It's over."

I have a lot of overs, in this building, in my career, school years, institutions. When is the last time someone was able to touch me? My mother was always telling Kmac to check out my anatomy because my bipolar mother whose estimable gifts have watered themselves down within did not like how I looked. Kmac's ugly ruddy hands were always clutching my pubic area. If I had known what she was, I would have let child services take me away. They asked me at school if my mother was unfit. 

It is unfortunate I was such a clever, loyal child. In Dr. Rubel's words, I am not done being pissed. Tough enough for you? I am going to hit even harder. I want to save future spastics from needing the dowager.

Stardust Once Removed

The woman weighs no more than a child. She has a smell. My mother fights it continually; bathing her, changing her sheets, carrying her to the bathroom so the smell can be contained and flushed away. --Jayne Anne Phillips, "Home"

I am not sure why Jerry recommended that I read Phillips. I remember nearly next to nothing about her collection "Black Tickets," but I consumed it as if attempting copulation with the recommendation as a sort of compensation, not being able to abase myself over the penis of the master. I wrote Phillips a poorly expressed letter from the inner city. Why? I wanted to feed off her confidence, imitate her vigorous sexual skills, if possible. I cut her picture out of a Poets & Writers article and published a poem about the fantasy of her competitive literary companionship in Metis, a local Jersey Xerox and staple effort. Admiration, as I have written, can be a dangerous attribute to those with low self-esteem.

Never heard from her, and she doesn't have the sustaining power needed for her novels. Her arc has passed its zenith, but she is at Rutgers, her look suggestive, even conspiratorial, exciting only insofar as if I could reach out and penetrate her shield, then I get to hold onto how Jerry at least enabled me to stay alive. I have weighed it once again, contacting her, in the time it has taken me to write this post, but I haven't read her work in years, and her voice, somewhat ponderous, bowed perhaps by an agrarian weight, has been surpassed; she does represent a sexual charge, not for herself necessarily, but the eroticism is inescapable: "I should have been Jayne Anne Phillips and I am not. I am a broken and pathetic--" a whine a whine. Moth to the flame, but moths are silent, not particularly aggressive and I did not enjoy her later novel Machine Dreams. Again, what is it I would want from her? What could her faded reputation offer me, scarred on so many levels as I am? What could Dr. Phillips heal that Bowie's predation in The Hunger offers in the recognition of insatiable appetite?

When I first saw this film the pace of Bowie's spectacular disintegration made an indelible impact, and offered exactly the kind of dangerous sexual foreplay I have always wanted with a man, one that impinges on the trauma of violation, with the elegance of cool. A local literary instructor, whose name escapes me for the moment, said on Fresh Air that vampirism is the most overused literary conceit. I agree with her, except for where it turns in interesting ways. The Hunger is a precursor to the terror we feel about being consumed, wasted from the inside out by viral flavors of the season: avian influenza, AIDS, ebola, and that wasting, in turn, make us focus on that one sole desire, which is the very damnation of its heat. It still contains something of the romantic in Gothic horror, and the danger of seduction that goes too far, lesbian or otherwise,  but it is also a precursor film to the rise of  retro-fitted zombie genres, like 28 Days Later, 30 Days of Night.

As a selfish outreach, I regret trying to make a connection with Phillips, but perhaps not the poem which is a preserved scrapbook tribute of a sort, saying, in effect, I wanted to be pretty like you, to have accomplished like you, to share gratifications which you seem to convey are in the realm of your experience. I toyed with viewing the film again on Saturday evening, but senile aunts, spoiled felines mewing, the usual things of poverty in tandem with broken bodies making nothing ever go right. 

Bad day, but found an unexpected network opportunity, if a summary skim of my post intensity doesn't kill it.

Anglo Habitation: Black Judaism

"Who cares what model the weapon is?" -- Leon Wieselter

I did not mind Roth's specificity over Simon Axler's shotgun in The Humbling. This is not to dispute Leon's churning efforts at literary distillation. I am a failed woman with birth brain damage we classify as cerebral palsy, but do the same thing Leon does, think in the hues of comparative terms, and I do not understand the American Jewish Left's argument with itself. Not for lack of trying, or not so much trying as exposure--perhaps too much of it-- inclusive of the particularly Jewish obsession with Henry James-- where the fuck does that come from? I often ask. How did Jewish academic culture appropriate a fairly affluent but rather fucked up and somewhat not well educated Anglo-Irish snobbish old fart who could never make up his mind and had a great deal of enmity toward American Jewry, as he saw it, in the late Victorian era? My belonging or enmity or both belonging and enmity with the academics surrounding those of us obsessed with the Master is trumped up. I know it. I am neither friend nor foe to Greg Zacharias, and my speculation about his use of anti-depressants exposes me for what I am: a silly cripple who isn't trying hard enough. I wrote to a more accommodating member of this sometimes queer community that I was writing an essay on Lampedusa "for myself," implying that if I ripped my fucking soul apart over James that it was out of obligation to the dead who aren't even necessarily my dead.

I liked Roth's faulty little book, more than Wieselter's nearly overweening deconstruction of it. The Humbling is a satirical take on the pernicious influence of Jewish culture in the arts and the American entertainment industry, and reiterates what Roth achieves with The Human Stain. Hopkins was miscast to play a high yellow masquerading as a Jew who is murdered by Richard Harris in Anti-Semitic mode. This whets my curiosity over the genius of Philip Roth. I also did not read hostility to homosexuality in Pegeen's boomerang relationships. I read a send up of Jewish mothers, of infantile narcissism, an encapsulation of the customer review I may write for Amazon in a concomitant act of phlegm melt and decomposition. Green dildo in a harness?

I think not, but if you like Roth, his send up of the psychiatric modality, one I lived with my mother's continuous hospitalizations, points to my lack of belief in counseling therapy. Not that ableism can't kill me at any time.

Two Corners, Many Shades

I love the people,
But do not like to stage me to their eyes:
Through it do well, I do not relish well
Their loud applause and Aves vehement;
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion
That does affect it. --Measure for Measure (1.1.67-72)

Foster's forgettable reticence is interesting. Fathomable? This is something that has preoccupied me for the two and half thankless years I have had a blogging account. She is not merely my contemporary, of course, and would not be the actor she is if her talent did not in some sense speak to the American soul. The pretty tomboy, the man girl who dares to transmute a vibrant sexuality, a fast-paced self-reliance that flows with her wit. I tend to think the media backlash she received over Hinckley was a form of moral castigation otherwise unfair to the woman. Taxi Driver was a Scorsese vehicle thick as thieves with Actors Studio methodology and experimentation that doesn't quite pan. Let me put it this way: I have been socially inappropriate with men in order to get laid, and the end result is I am alone with weak legs and a colon which has a mind of its own. Bickle's disturbed mind just doesn't seem consistent with his action of taking a golden girl to a sex education movie. It is akin to me rolling down to the lobby naked after I had enticed the husband, and that isn't an end game, even for a war veteran who is a wounded lone wolf. I have not approached Foster's publicist yet, and perhaps there is no way I could get around the formulaic industry promotional interview to do something different, and this includes the fact that I do not give a flying fuck what she thinks about Hinckley, an assassin of pretend who is notorious for attempting to murder a B-grade actor who had a chimpanzee side kick, an actor who believed in the blacklist during the tenure of his presidency of the screen actors guild before he was senile in the office currently held by a law student who needs to dismiss our highest federal law enforcement official.

I do not agree with McCain about much, but he is an astute politician enough to know when Principals mortally wound themselves. Did you notice Holder's hand shaking in his recent congressional testimony? I did, but in fairness to the Clintonian, I cannot remember any attorney general who was capable of running the DOJ. Holder's competence has been a steady spear in Barack's side since those giddy post-election days in 09 when he opened his mouth about race relations. He just doesn't embody the command and the ability to administer, to adjudicate terrorism, to hold his officers accountable for mismanaged operations.

Near midnight defecation disaster fortunately avoided, I did consider killing myself during the turn of the century. I am not quite sure what force of will stops me, what belief. Defiance has a great deal to do with it. My mind is focused on my leg strength. The level of pretense surrounding Hinckley's nearly successful attempt almost places us in Chesterton's landscape, now that I focus on it. Young Foster was pretending to be Martin's Lolita; Hinckley was pretending anarchy for the pretend kiddie hooker, and Reagan pretended his mettle had solid foundation. I wrote an essay supporting Reagan over Carter and bumped my GPA up significantly. 

Diving Bells

"You aren't welfare trash. You have your writing. You're intelligent." --Frank, whose unspeakable crime was attempting to make spastic_dowager his wife.

I cannot handle it when I visit Frank in his unit. He is not in a nursing home, but he lives within the community in name only. His studio looks like a hospital ward in precisely the relation that my studio looks like a train depot. He lies in a hospital bed surrounded by steel frames, pulleys, life alert buttons, and I did not enjoy anal sex on the end of his fist; he admired the lubricated intensity of my climax, however, and this, our creation of a third gender, one that I destroyed in horror, with the realization that the lead car was about to flatten me, has nothing on the failed queer intimacy between John Marcher and May Bartram. I have interacted with some of these scholars Tate refers to for years, and the best they can do is assert that homoerotic impetus subverts traditional Victorian bonds, and remain fixated there.

I think there is more to it than that, whatever the erosion of lesbianism's epistemological force, as if there is truly an erasure of the value of the breast as a container because same gender attraction to her own vessel was eradicated via the rise of Semitic monotheism. Literary scholars sometimes forget to stop making love and assuaging each other's ego. There is a third way into James that doesn't necessarily involve his orientation, whether he actively ejaculated into it, or not.

Simulation, and I think this is what has keep me fixated to the mastery of James, beyond my dead academic advisor giving me a lifelong quest, or my now very pained sexual security, which must, after all, have some bisexual proclivity, since I kept my distance from Alexandra but was impacted by the knowledge of her absence upon her decease, or my cling to Michael's memory itself. My own little plot for a divorced professor with two children, his younger daughter named for Emily, of course. I was there for his happiness when she was born, but this is simulation, just as Frank and I, had I married him,would have been an imitation of viability as husband and wife, and yet I am not finally surrendering, in the classical right wing trigger dynamic, to confess to self sanctified faggots that I am truly one of you, and that my depressive episode with Linda was a near lethal dose of gay panic and wallowing in maudlin strings, I loved her as an imprint of how I saw myself in her psychopathy, though I believed this for a number of years after our near deadly altercation with each other, my obsessively referenced supervisor. I believed that her conduct must have cracked me because I am a repressed switch hitter, but this is an error, at least in terms of self-realization, though I share many of her attributes: cold, analytical, lacking in empathy unless it is an extraordinary tragedy, like Newtown. She is a praying mantis in physique, which I would have preferred over my florid cellulose, but those are genetics.

Henry James penetrates the horror of simulated intimacy, even while Marcher acknowledges how this diminishes us in its very grasp, makes us perfect asses. I did not work at all Saturday, but I have the data I need to reconstruct my political representative contacts, as I need to get away from the dying doctor transvestite, before my anger at this figure overcomes my developmental condition in a miraculous display of strength; this is why I visited Frank, to spew the poison of Erik von Schmetterling out of my mouth.

Aborted Launch

The rapid convergence of queer theory and disability studies over the past few years has been nothing short of extraordinary. Robert McRuer

My interview with the PhD from the Bay area was humorous to the extent that I had a fecal gas attack and she did not know I left her hanging, drove to toilet, and only then resumed the interview. She had polio, hired me, did not get the grant proposal. I reacted in email, more frustrated than not, and she and I parted company. This came after the actress my former disability center siphoned into a WIMM grant. If I had written anything particularly vicious I would have remembered, and believe her affronted sense was due to the fact "she was trying to help." I cannot remember much else, even if I wanted to remain her protege. In terms of keeping a connection, I blew it. Inadvertently. Perhaps she succeeded in creating the educational paradigm she wished, and her students work for the usual spin doctors. I hope she succeeded, and perhaps found tenure at Berkeley, liberal mastiff.

Now the clincher: In came a lesbian with an MIT affiliation who offered to make me an online instructor for a course I really would have enjoyed doing. Resume sent, syllabus material developed, and while I waited, I might have been in the North Pole discovering fossilized hermaphrodites. I cried out into the darkness and finally, though I needed magic pliers to get it out of the woman, discovered her department never had the money. She "just wanted to help." 

This is not mutual empowerment through shared matriculation, sorry. In my book, pipe dreams are just that, and this forms a part of why I am more angry at the activists themselves than I am with the ambulatory majority.